


like a lost lamb returning to the fold

by Sarah T (SarahT)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: fragment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahT/pseuds/Sarah%20T
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fragment of a vampire AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a lost lamb returning to the fold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Spike (spike21)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spike21/gifts).



John had almost convinced himself that vampirism was far from the weirdest thing about Sherlock until the Tuesday night he'd come home early.

The door to the flat was closed and locked, which made him think Sherlock might be out, but when he opened it and stepped into the sitting room, he saw Mycroft sitting on the sofa, suited impeccably as always, his umbrella propped neatly beside him. Sherlock was lying with his head in Mycroft's lap, turned away from John. Mycroft's wrist was pressed against Sherlock's mouth; his other hand was stroking Sherlock's hair.

John cleared his throat, uncertain. Even though he was staring at them, he didn't catch the moment at which Mycroft lifted his head, but now he was giving John the blankest, most level look he had ever received. What of it? Mycroft was coolly, silently challenging him.

Right. Sherlock wouldn't feed on humans. But Sherlock still needed—So. Right.

They could've gone into Sherlock's room, of course. Or Sherlock could have gone to Mycroft's. Wherever it was, John was sure there was plenty of privacy there. But they'd chosen the sitting room. The message was clear: if you're going to stay here, you'd better get used to certain things.

Which was fine, in fact, John realized, but if he was going to live there, he was bloody well going to act like it was his place. So instead of retreating upstairs to his room, which in all honesty had been his first impulse, he proceeded calmly over to one of the armchairs, picked up the paper, and shook it out.

There were a few seconds of silence, then, as John's ears adjusted, he realized that Sherlock was making little desperate sounds, half-stifled against Mycroft's skin. Tiny needy noises, and John's toes curled involuntarily inside his shoes.

Mycroft said, in a gentle, patient voice John had never expected to hear from him, "Go on, Sherlock. Take what you need, you'll feel so much better."

John knew, without quite being sure how, that this wasn't a common event, that Sherlock would resist his hunger almost to the point of madness before turning to Mycroft. He thought he knew why, too. He had already had a glimpse of how terrifyingly strong Mycroft's mind was. He couldn't imagine how overwhelming intimacy with him must be.

Intimacy—the word made him flush a little. He involuntarily cut his glance in their direction. Mycroft's head was now bent over Sherlock. He was wearing a peculiar, slightly concentrated expression, and John thought: oh. It hurts.

But Mycroft didn't speak, or pull away. Instead, he murmured wordless encouragement and traced his fingers over Sherlock's brow. Sherlock's free hand slowly came up and tangled with his.

Intimacy. Yes. John had to look away. The paper in front of him teemed with meaningless words. He made himself concentrate on the abstract patterns of ink rather than the soft sigh of the cushion as Sherlock shifted, the unmistakeable thickness of Sherlock's swallow.

He wasn't sure how long it was until he realized that those noises had stopped. He looked over again. Sherlock had let Mycroft go. John could see more of his profile. He was blinking slowly, his lips still parted. After a little while, he pushed himself reluctantly up from Mycroft's lap, but subsided almost immediately with his head against his shoulder, instead. He looked pleased and dazed and as if he was unwilling to relinquish contact with his brother.

Mycroft reached over and tilted his head back and…

Kissed him, and there was no way of justifying that as necessary to Sherlock's survival. Given how the two of them usually fought—to say nothing of the fact that they were brothers—John expected some reaction from Sherlock. Even resistance. But Sherlock only turned inwards, to make the angle easier. The kiss was greedy and slow, Mycroft devouring Sherlock's mouth with much more deliberation than Sherlock had just shown, but about as much hunger.

They kissed like that, only kissed, without words, for five minutes or more. The shock, for John, passed away much sooner than that. Then he was only watching, though there was little enough to see from where he was: Mycroft's long fingers along Sherlock's jaw, Sherlock's dark curls brushing Mycroft's cheek. He felt lost. He had no frame of reference for this. None at all. He wanted to pull Sherlock away from Mycroft; he wanted to study them together until he understood.

Then they were looking back at him. Sherlock's head was on Mycroft's chest, and it was as if it was one person gazing out through both pairs of eyes.

"Mycroft," Sherlock murmured, "why is John all the way over there?"

"That," Mycroft said, "is a very good question. John?"

"Wh—sorry, what?"

"Sherlock wants to know why you're so far away. Since you've apparently decided to join us for the evening, he'd like you to be closer." He held out a hand, languidly inviting. "Come."

John stared at them, mouth going dry. This was progressing very quickly. And he suspected it was about more than just—well, just sex. He seized the first defense that came to mind. "He'd like me to be closer?"

Sherlock laughed softly against Mycroft's shirt. Mycroft closed his eyes and curled his fingers around the back of Sherlock's neck.

"I want," Mycroft said, a little huskily, and ran his tongue against his front teeth. "I want what he wants." He opened his eyes again, his voice regaining its clarity. "Or is that he wants what I want? Difficult to say, at the moment. Not entirely polite to ask."

He should, he thought, probably be angry at Mycroft. But that seemed to require being angry at Sherlock, too, Sherlock who was watching him with a glint in his eye that John had never seen before. Strange and beautiful Sherlock who had invited him in and told him his secret and who now, apparently, wanted…

It was surprising how not afraid he felt as he rose and came over to the sofa. Sherlock wouldn't. And Mycroft…as uncertain as he was about most things to do with Mycroft, John had believed him when he'd said he confined himself to the blood of Her Majesty's enemies.

Or maybe it was just that, between the two of them, they'd already lulled John's always tenuous sense of self-preservation to sleep. He certainly felt like he was sinking under the surface of something.

Sherlock slid down and sideways as he approached, resting his back against the back of the sofa and his head against Mycroft's hip. John took up the indicated space, stretching out on his back. His side was, inevitably, pressed up against Sherlock's, but he was careful to leave an inch or so of space between his head and Mycroft's thigh.

Sherlock gazed down at him with a sort of sleepy-eyed delight and laid his hand on his chest. John shivered.

"Your heart," Sherlock said. "It beats all the time. I'm always listening to it."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said mildly. At the edge of his vision, John could see that he'd returned to stroking Sherlock's hair. "You'll frighten him away."

"John likes to be frightened," Sherlock whispered. "Just a little. Just enough."

And John's heart was beating faster, suddenly, and it felt good. He was used to that. But he usually also felt sharper, more focused, when he was afraid, and instead it seemed like the world was softening at the edges. When he put his hand over Sherlock's, it was as much to reassure himself that everything was still solid as because he wanted to.

Though he found that he did want to, very much.

Sherlock leaned down, and John thought: I should flinch. But he didn't. Sherlock kissed him, on the cheek, an oddly chaste kiss quite different from the ones he had been sharing with Mycroft just before. John felt confused more than disappointed; the kiss only confirmed his suspicion that he had no idea what was going on here.

"You've been very good to us, John," Sherlock said. "We'd like to do something for you."

John wondered if Sherlock was even aware that he kept saying "we." Was he too intoxicated…? Was it even right…?

"He wanted to be closer to you before," Mycroft's voice came to him. "He just wasn't sure how best to go about it."

"Lucky you were willing to help, then."

"Don't be difficult," Sherlock said, and kissed him again, the same way. He began rubbing circles into John's chest. One of his bare feet brushed up against John's shin. He could feel the play of dextrous toes even through the cloth. "Don't you like this?"

I'd like it better if your brother weren't here, he thought of saying, but he wasn't even sure that was true. Mycroft might not be conventionally handsome, but he did have a certain magnetism. Even Sherlock felt it; it had never been so obvious as tonight. And the two of them, together—somehow they exerted a pull greater than either might have, apart. Good job they were rarely together like this, then.

But they'd come together, at least in part, for him. He felt dizzy.

"Yes."

"Then relax." Sherlock traced lazy, wandering patterns over John's shirt. "I'm relaxed."

"I can see that." He'd never seen Sherlock so quiet, and so content to be. As though, for the moment, he wanted nothing more than to lie there under Mycroft's hand and do…whatever it was he was doing to John.

Which really did feel good. He hadn't been with anyone since Afghanistan, but it was more than that. A quiet, shut-down war veteran with a cane didn't get touched kindly, affectionately. Just professionally, painfully. Therapeutically. It was as if he'd been shut out from some silent community he hadn't even realized he'd belonged to, before, one he could still see going on all around him. Now Sherlock was drawing him back in. John's eyes fluttered shut.

Sherlock's hand eventually drifted downwards, and John felt his cock stir. That was also good, but he remembered "married to my work," and what that had turned out to really mean. He swallowed.

"Sherlock, I'm not sure I can…"

"Just for tonight," Sherlock said.

"That's what I meant," John said. Distress was starting to seep down to the comfortable place where he was resting. He didn't want to refuse, but he couldn't let Sherlock touch him one night and then go back to pretending he didn't want Sherlock the next day.

"Mycroft," Sherlock appealed.

"John," Mycroft said soothingly. "It will be all right. You'll see."

Mycroft sounded so sure. Sherlock's hand had come back up to his face, stroking and petting, so delicately. No, wait, that wasn't Sherlock's hand, which had pulled away. Different fingers. Very soft. So reassuring. Every feather-light, confident brush of skin summoning trust.

He wondered if this was the way Mycroft touched his victims, so that they didn't struggle. It was irresistible. And that made him think of something else Sherlock had hinted about vampires.

"Mycroft, how much are you in my head?"

The hand paused for a moment, pressed lightly against temple and cheekbone. "Very little, actually. Nothing—coercive. Just encouraging you to do what you already want to."

He ought to care. But the admission, surprisingly, relaxed him. Now that he knew it was happening, he could accept it. Sherlock must have seen him still, because he was moving again. He plucked at John's belt.

Two sets of hands on him, he realized, now there were two of them, and his thinking stuttered as Sherlock wrapped his fingers around him. "Oh," he gasped faintly.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

Sherlock's hand didn't feel any different from his own, except in the disorienting way that it represented another will having its way with him. Something not entirely within his control. He shivered as Sherlock began sliding his hand up and down.

"That's a feeling you'll need to get used to," he heard Mycroft say, "if you're going to live in such close proximity with my brother."

What was he talking about? Not the feeling of being tossed off, surely?

Sherlock settled down against him, much more closely. "He means," he said, low and hot, "letting me do what I want. And liking to."

He was certainly liking the electric thrill of Sherlock's hand on his cock, to a degree that was almost pathetic. It'd been so long. Every stroke had him gasping in for breath. He was having a hard time keeping track of the conversation. But they meant…they meant…

Mycroft's hand left his face for a moment, then returned. This time he pressed his forefinger lightly against John's lips. Vaguely puzzled, John parted them. He tasted blood, bitterer than normal and heavy.

Then the inside of his head lit up.

Like an explosion during a night-battle, a jagged, glaring flash that illuminated the darkness of the room for him, though his eyes were shut. Sherlock, gorgeous and guttering over satisfaction, so tangible that John thought that if he reached out, he could feel it on him. Mycroft, austere and strange, but absolutely luminous with love for his brother. The sense of a pleasure shared between them—the pleasure of playing with him—

Then the glimpse passed. Only Sherlock was still stroking him, and the amplified sense of the physical pleasure hit him like an aftershock.

"God," he said, in a strangled voice.

"No, only me," Mycroft demurred.

Sherlock laughed and kissed John's temple. "He thinks that's not much further down."

"Perhaps now is not the time to put that question," Mycroft said. He'd withdrawn his finger. Withdrawn his whole hand, actually. John missed the way it had balanced out the wilder sensations caused by his brother's hand. "Do you want more, John?"

What didn't he want, he thought, with Sherlock pressed up against him and sending sparks flying with every touch. But he tried to think. Mycroft was asking him for a reason. "I'm not going to…to change, am I?"

He didn't think he would. He didn't know how the two of them had become what they were, but Sherlock had told him it wasn't their choice.

"No," Mycroft assured him. "Not in the way you mean. But it may make you more attuned to us."

"Attuned. Right." He swallowed, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "You mean, you'll be even more in my head."

Not that Sherlock seemed to mind it. John had seen that.

But he also knew Sherlock didn't give in to the experience very often.

Sherlock wasn't adrift in the world. He had a purpose. Connection. Hope. John was like a moth fluttering hopelessly around the edges of the life he'd once had.

Mycroft's fingertip brushed over his mouth, inviting and insinuating. The touch made up John's mind for him. He wanted contact. He wanted them.

He opened his mouth again. He felt the trickle of blood and braced himself. It still hit hard. He gasped and arched into Sherlock's hand.

"Careful," Mycroft cautioned. "You'll feel strange enough in the morning as it is."

But John was already past worrying about that. Each drop brought a pulse of vision, like the pounding of a headache. He tried, each time, to focus on Sherlock, who was still nestled against him and Mycroft.

Possessiveness, he could recognize as it swirled around him—could tell by the way it tangled Sherlock to Mycroft, too. And pleasure, he thought. That was pretty clear. But…relief? That was so strange he couldn't quite believe it.

"Obvious," Sherlock said, though John hadn't said anything out loud. "Now you won't go."

"Go?" John almost choked on his half-laugh. "Where would I go?"

"Exactly."

He felt oddly touched. "Were you really…you've been worried I'd move out?"

"I like having you here," Sherlock said, a little defensively. "You're much better company than the skull."

Not exactly flattering, that, but Sherlock seemed to have forgotten that John could see that he meant more. He could feel the pull of Sherlock's half-recognized need like an ache in his chest.

"Sherlock wasn't able to keep a flatmate even before," Mycroft interceded, as if he didn't really want John to think about this too much. "You understand our concern."

"But it's sorted now," Sherlock said. "Good job we're so clever."

Sorted? Yes, he supposed everything was sorted. He was going to lie there and let Sherlock finish bringing him off, and then he was going to stop worrying about the fact that his flatmate was a vampire. It was obviously all under control. Mycroft's control, in fact, and when John pressed his tongue hard against his finger, he glimpsed the way Mycroft's mind spread outwards and outwards in infinite ramifications. At the same time, he knew that here was where Mycroft's attention would always be focused. It was alarming. Thrilling.

Sherlock grumbled a bit at the shift in John's attention, and his hand sped up. With his nerves so sensitized, it was almost too much for John. He bit down on his lip. Mycroft laughed.

"That's it," Sherlock urged. "Come on, John. For me."

For Sherlock, he thought, he wouldn't pull away. He would take shock after shock until Sherlock was done with him. He could feel Sherlock's desire all around him, he could feel the way Mycroft was consuming them both in observation, and all he wanted to do was surrender.

And then he did, and it felt like the brilliance in his head would go on forever.

When the world resolved itself around him again, Mycroft had pulled him up so that his head was propped on his leg. He'd produced (from where? Had he gotten up?) a glass of water, and set it against his mouth. John swallowed obediently, though he felt a pang at the taste of the blood washing away.

Sherlock kissed his temple again and then settled to nuzzling his ear. It felt good. Sherlock was happy, John realized; he could tell without looking. And Mycroft was…well, satisfied. For now.

"How do you feel, John?" he asked politely.

"Sleepy," John said. "Comfortable."

"Good." Mycroft's hand skimmed over his brow, and John automatically relaxed into the touch. "I should be going."

John waited for Sherlock to protest, but he only said, "Next time, call before you come."

Ah. Back to normal, then.

"Oh, did I inconvenience you this evening?"

"I did have other plans."

"Mycroft," John said, and then groped for the right words. He liked the dry intensity of Mycroft's presence, liked the privileged feeling of being at the center of his contemplation. He wasn't ready for it to end yet. "Don't go on my account."

That surprised them both, a bit. Surprise and pleasure on Mycroft's part; surprise and jealousy on Sherlock's. "Are you inviting me to spend the night, John?"

"Yes, I suppose I am."

Mycroft's tone was very bland. "Well, I mustn't refuse such a kind offer…"

"Oh, no?" Sherlock said. "Since when do you care about kindness?"

"Don't worry," Mycroft said. "We'll stay out of your way."

Sherlock threw an arm across John and turned his head so that his chin dug into Mycroft's leg. "No, you won't. You'll stay here."

Mycroft chuckled dryly. "Indeed. If you insist…"

Sherlock grumbled. John shut his eyes again, but smiled.

This was, after all, his place, too.


End file.
